


grand gestures (or what passes for them, according to genius billionaires)

by cassie_p



Series: gestures [2]
Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 21:45:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2166309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassie_p/pseuds/cassie_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My shirt,” Mark says, “is blue.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	grand gestures (or what passes for them, according to genius billionaires)

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially a keysmash that I decided I might as well post. Um. Any advice would be appreciated. I think I want to leave the ending there but I might end up adding more to it later? No promises.

“My shirt,” Mark says, “is blue.”

Eduardo pales, eyes locked on the papers in his hand.  He starts vibrating, rustling the papers in his hand so they make a sound like autumn.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, and his voice is too tight, slightly high-pitched and broken on every other syllable.

“You said.”  Mark stops, licks his lips.  “You said that you wanted a gesture.”  Mark waves a hand at his shirt.  “I’m gesturing.”

Wardo looks down and breathes through his mouth, his chest twitching with each inhale.

“You’re gesturing,” Eduardo repeats.  He pulls himself up from his rolling office chair, his hands firmly planted on the desk while his arms sway like a sapling in the breeze. “He’s gesturing,” Eduardo whispers to the space between his hands.

Eduardo glances up, then, to look at the shirt, the “gesture”. He bites out a laugh and closes his eyes, looking pained.

“Your shirt is Facebook blue.  Your ‘gesture’ is that you love Facebook.”  Eduado sounds self-deprecating and surprised.  “I never should have called you,” he whispers, like a concession to a defeat.

Mark winces, but forges ahead.  “You just don’t understand, Wardo, let me explain—”

Eduardo snarls, suddenly, all traces of fragility gone from his angry, angry face and Mark visibly flinches, hands tightening into fists in the Facebook blue fabric of the old, faded tee shirt.

“My name is not Wardo,” he screams, unhinged.  He grabs the phone receiver, punches numbers into the keypad like it has personally affronted him.

“Hello, security?”  Eduardo snaps, looking crazed and frayed around the edges, red-rimmed eyes darting between the phone and Mark, biting his lips like he doesn’t know what to do with his teeth.

“Wardo,” Mark whispers, and Eduardo glares so venomously he can feel poison in his blood.

“Yes, I have someone I’d like you to escort out of here.”

Mark closes his eyes and prays quietly for patience, begging the God his parents believe in for this one last chance.

“Mark Zuckerberg,” Eduardo says, enunciating every syllable like it disgusts him to taste the sounds in his mouth.

“This is your shirt, Wardo,” Mark says, last-ditch desperation forcing the truth out.

Wardo freezes, his face looking vaguely panicked and hopeful in equal measure.

“Hold on,” he whispers into the phone.

“My shirt,” he states, like he doesn’t believe it.

“Your shirt,” Mark repeats, and he looks put off.  “You ruined the quality of my gesture with the spoiler, but I had to get your attention.”

Eduardo shakes even harder.

“Hang up the phone,” Mark says, and he does not plead.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Mark closes his eyes and swears at the God who could not let him have even this small respite.

“It’s just a misunderstanding,” Eduardo says, and Mark cracks an eyelid. Eduardo is staring at his face, shock living in the set of his jaw and the wide eyes that remind everyone and their baby cousin of cartoon deer.

“Yes, I’m fine.”  Eduardo says a string of numbers, followed by his full name.  “Yes, thank you.”

He hangs up the phone, the slight clack of plastic against plastic echoing dully, drowned out only by the blood rushing in Mark’s ears.

There is a silence.

“You’re gesturing,” Eduardo says, and this time it seems more like an invitation.

“I am gesturing,” Mark repeats.

“That’s my shirt?” Eduardo asks, when Mark doesn’t go on.

“I stole it out of your laundry in the second semester of freshman year because I liked the way it smelled,” Mark blurts, and then shuts his eyes tight.

Eduardo catches a chuckle in his throat, but Mark probably hears it anyways.

“I didn’t mean to tell you that part,” Mark mutters, shaking his head.

“Then what part did you mean to tell me?” Eduardo asks, and his voice is gentler than it’s been in years.

Mark flicks his eyes open and settles them on a spot around Eduardo’s cheekbone.  “This shirt isn’t Facebook blue,” Mark says, finally.

Eduardo waits.

“Facebook is Eduardo blue,” Mark concludes.

Eduardo waits longer, a small chill of anticipation crawling up his spine.

“I didn’t…I made Facebook the colour it is because of this shirt. Because it’s my favourite shirt of yours.  Because you wore it whenever you didn’t have anywhere important to be, on the weekend mornings when the only reason you rolled out of bed was because I called you or texted you and asked you to come over.  This is the shirt you wore when you spent the nights in my dorm because you were too drunk to walk across the quad, or you wanted to stay and take care of me.” Mark takes a deep, shaky breath and moves his eyes to look into Eduardo’s.

Eduardo stops breathing.

“This is the shirt you were wearing when I realized I was in love with you,” Mark whispers, just quiet enough that the words are hazy but the meaning is clear. Mark fiddles with the zipper on his jacket, and Eduardo inhales again, a little too sharply.

“Is that my North Face, too?” Eduardo mutters, and Mark looks down in surprise.

Mark laughs.  “Yeah, I guess it is. Can we pretend like I planned that?” He smiles, tight and tentative, and Eduardo can’t help but grin and laugh in return.

“Yeah. Yeah, Mark, we can pretend like you planned that too,” Eduardo affirms, and he feels like he agreed to something entirely different.

Judging by the blinding smile he’s greeted with, he thinks Mark agreed to it too.

“Does this mean…” Mark starts.  “What does this mean?”

Eduardo looks at his hands, at his father’s ring, and he holds his breath. He makes a decision and he exhales.  “It means…that I asked for a gesture.  And you gestured.”

He looks back up at Mark, who looks halfway between confused and hopeful.

“Come get dinner with me,” Eduardo says, before the words have even formed in his head.

Mark bites his lip and nods, shoving his hands in the pockets of the pilfered jacket.  “I’d love to.”

Eduardo walks around the desk and next to Mark.  He hesitates only a second before placing his hand in the small of Mark’s back and leading him towards the door of the office.


End file.
